


The Flower and The Light

by IAmInTwelve



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode: s09e11 Heaven Sent, F/M, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmInTwelve/pseuds/IAmInTwelve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Twelve enters the Room for the last time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flower and The Light

He entered the room, with equal amounts of daring and caution. He had begun to realize what this place was, he was sure of it—although he was never quite sure about anything, really.

 

_Well, not everything,_ he thought aloud. _Not everything._

 

As he examined the room, his eyebrows furrowing their way on his forehead, he felt a strange sort of tiredness take over him. A fatigue that he could not understand, a call from a far-off place that he could not name. There was a bed in the room, he observed, and quite comfortable too! Maybe he could catch a wink or two. Maybe he could just sleep.

 

He wished he could stop, just this once, he could stop. He wished he could stop running. Even in this confined space, in his own bespoke torture chamber, he was on a constant run. The Time Lord who wanted to escape everything, but could never quite escape the running away. He had run, and he had run.

 

_Oh Souffle Girl! You watch me run!_

  
But that was a lifetime ago, before he had visited his own grave. Before he knew who she was, what she was, what she meant to him. Then, now, and forever.

  
He spied a vase of flowers on a table, facing the only window in the room. It was still daytime outside, and he felt a tiny bit helpless not knowing exactly where he was. Once the stars came out, he would know, and then he would ascertain the identities of his captors.

  
She had instructed him to refrain from walking the path of revenge (a teacher until the end, he smiled.) She was not the one who had witnessed his silent fury, but he was sure she could feel it in her bones. After Trenzalore, after she had saved him, all of Hims, he was not quite sure where he ended and she began. He would have called her actions _heroic_ , were it not that she had also said, quite rightly, that any old idiot could be a hero. In the end, she had become what she wanted him to be – a healer, a Doctor. She had willingly jumped into his timestream, knowing fully the consequences of her actions. The Time Vortex had split her into countless fragments, and every fragment had but one purpose – to save him, to heal him, to be _his_ Doctor.

 

_Oh, Clara Oswald, what have I made of you?_

  
He picked up a stalk from the vase, sniffing it in the hope of calculating its origins, but it gave no smell. He turned the stalk in his hands, observing the way the light from the window hit the edges of the lavender petals. The flower had a vibrancy that contrasted everything in the castle. It looked fresh, it looked … alive. And yet, it had no smell, no sign of any life that it held in its precious heart. As if it were suspended between moments- forever living, never alive!

 

He plucked out a petal and let it fall to the floor, from approximately his shoulder height. _Always the problem-solver_ , Clara had called him once. She had wondered if he could ever sit still enough to not think about a problem, any problem, that needed solving. He had looked at her with such an incredulous expression on his face, it was a dead give away that he was analyzing her words right then too.

 

_0.55 seconds to the floor, so this should be close to Earth gravity, slightly larger planet. That narrows it down to 40% of all inhabited planets, or at least the ones that want me dead._

  
The thought brought an inadvertent smile to his face that froze as he turned to the wall facing the bed. On the wall, covering a good portion of it, was a painting. A portrait really. A face he knew so well, that he could describe it in his sleep (he often did). A face he missed so much it hurt to look at it again, as if all the pain that bubbled under the surface had found its way to a canvas.

 

_No, it can't be. How can you be here?_

  
Someone was pushing him, testing him, probing the limits of his sanity. He had been half-joking earlier, but now, he thought coldly as another smile curved up on his weathered lips – he would certainly see what could be done about their day. It would get much much worse than they could imagine, than anyone could ever imagine.

 

He felt the anger melt away as he walked towards the painting. Her presence did that, always – made him want to be the best version of himself. Not to impress her, not to show her – but to just, be. A good man. A better man. To always be good enough for her, her friendship, her … He felt his voice fold back into his throat. He had never said it, never aloud. _A duty of care,_ he had always said, when he had really wanted to say something else. Something hidden away, a secret more powerful, more dangerous than all the secrets he held combined. He would have gladly given away his name, his _true_ name, not the one he chose for himself, than give away this secret.

 

But it was not a secret, it never was. She knew. And he knew it too. She had said it, aloud, holding a phone to her ears, not aware that he already knew there was nobody on the other side of that call. He smiled again, a bit of resignation showing through. No matter what he did, no matter where he went, she would still not be there!

 

He picked up a monocle placed under the painting and began examining it. The likeness was uncanny, he had to admit. It was as if Clara had been in the presence of the painter herself, but he could not quite place when (or where) they had done so. No, this painting had been made without their knowledge.

  
_That eliminates another 30% of inhabited worlds. 10%, those are odds I can live by. I have seen worse!_

  
Not all civilizations possessed the technology that could bypass the TARDIS shields and capture a likeness of its inhabitants. He wondered if there was another portrait like this, of him, that his captors had captured. What would Clara do if it was her who came face-to-face with his portrait? How would the story play out if their places were interchanged?

 

_Same as you, Doctor. Same as you._

 

Of course, he knew it was true. He had seen it time and again. He had seen it that fateful day on Trap Street. She had fallen where she stood, the light going out from her eyes, the color fading from her lips. She had fallen just like a petal plucked out from a flower. That memory hurt so much that his hearts, both of them, squeezed tight at the same time, pushing all air out of him. He put his hands on the wall to steady himself, and found himself inches away from the painting, breathing deeply.

 

The painting was old, very old. The canvas had cracked up all over, and it was mostly beyond repair. If he could make an estimate from the physical state of the painting, he would say it was about 4 and a half billion years old. But, he observed amusingly, the color had not faded as much. It seemed that the unknown artist had repainted over the same canvas, not bothering to replace it with a new one. In fact, he noted, as he stuck out his tongue and tasted the paint, the last repainting had been quite recent. Maybe a couple of days before. His mental gears started crunching this data to gleam some useful information. On the boundaries of his conscious thoughts was a tendril making its way into his memories. A long time ago, in the Academy, he has learned about a particular device that was a closed energy loop. Maybe it was not a person, maybe it was the room itself that painted over! Something, or somebody, was going out of their way to take care of his torture chamber. That meant two things – that somebody knew him personally, and in their own perverse fashion, seemed to care for his well-being.

  
His thoughts immediately went to Missy, but he ruled her out instantly. Missy had brought them together, and she had dragged Clara across the Universe to Skaro when he was ready to die. He had even sent her his Confession Dial, his store of a lifetime of secrets, his burden. Missy had understood the gravity of the situation and had brought Clara with her. He had always wondered why, but now he knew – only Clara, his best friend, his Love (yes, he finally allowed himself to say it) could bring him back from the gates of Hell.

  
He was not afraid of Hell – he once called it “Heaven for bad people.” But he was afraid of a world without her, without his Impossible Girl, without his Clara. And he would raise all the Hells in all the worlds to get her back. He had hardly completed this thought when felt an icy coldness emerging from his hearts. The tendril of thought that had begun probing his memories had found an answer, _the_ answer, and it made him go cold.

 

Clara, he thought, you were … are ... the Flower – petals plucked cruelly before our time. You are my Light – shining brightly on my darkness, the one for whom … for whom ... I will gladly endure Hell for another 4-and-a-half billion years.

  
He turned around and saw, for the first time, all the countless petals that he had plucked, one at every visit, when he had last been in this room. He remembered the sea, not the salty, watery one. He remembered the undulating landscape of skulls, waves upon waves of his unwavering faith in his Love, scattered in the bottomless abyss. He remembered the cold water, the icy veil of deceit that hid the skulls from him. He remembered the Wall, the fatigue catching up with him. The desire to make it stop, just once, just this once.

  
And he remembered, above all, that the name he chose for himself was indeed his _true_ name, his true identity. The man who wanted revenge, who wanted to burn the Universe because it took away his Love, had ended up burning himself countless times. The man who wanted to rain Hell on his betrayer had ended up enduring one until Eternity. That he could never be a Warrior, never again. He was born to heal the Universe, no matter what it cost him.

  
A faint buzz alerted him to another presence. The buzzing flies, the pungent odor of the embalmed Time Lady, signaled the arrival of his tormentor. _Ah, we meet again, Lord Veil,_ he mocked the approaching figure.

  
He remembered the cold touch of hideous scaly fingers that had sucked the life out of him, repeatedly, for 4-and-a-half billion years. And now, he remembered with a wry smile, he was just a few microns away from breaking the wall. A few punches away from going “Home,” whatever that meant to a rootless traveler. He would break through, he knew, he would break through this time.

  
But first, there was the small matter of enduring Hell for one last time.

  
_You won't see this coming,_ he said as he picked up the chair and threw it against the window.

 

As the glass shattered, the flower petals scattered under his feet, and the light from the outside world filled his vision, as he leapt into the unknown for one last time. 

 

_For Clara..._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Madredeus' "O Sonho"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scDhb6DNhD0


End file.
